Duration
by Kavan
Summary: WWI leads to new directions for Sybil and Matthew. Chapter 8 up!
1. Chapter 1

Duration

This is just an idea I had that has no connection to series 2 spoilers. Sybil/Matthew but not necessarily the way you'd think. Feedback is greeted with some of Mrs. Padamore's non-salted sweets.

The Dowager of Grantham would probably required smelling salts at the mere notion, but Lady Sybil Crawley was inspecting the aftermath of a below the knee amputation. The wound was dark red, oozing, and a smell wafting from the tissues was worrying her. This was how she spent her days marching around a field hospital, cleaning up the sick, promising and sometimes lying to patients that they would get well. None of her lessons in deportment were much use in this world. This life of disease, shattered bodies, discarded limbs was thousands of miles from Downton. She used to waste hours selecting the appropriate dress for dinner, now she reached for a clean uniform without much concern. Her two lives were as different as… Mary and Edith.

Thinking of her sisters pained her. She knew her entire family was terribly, terribly hurt by her decision. She knew too that each of them worried incessantly and prayed only for her to abandon her duties and return to the estate. She knew she wouldn't. Not until the troops were demobbed.

She'd watched as one after another the young men she knew vanished into service melting into battles with French and German names. The next she saw of most of these men were in the names of the casualty lists in the Times. Young men she'd danced, and laughed with lost to guns and angers that she doubted they really understood.

East lost life filled her with a little more frustration. Volunteering at the local hospital, wrapping bandages, sewing scarves it all felt so safe and so domestic. Hugo Napier had walked across No Man's Land and died in the mud. Thomas had been shot through the heart carrying the wounded to safety. And all the while she was knitting scarves for men who'd ceased living in the most unimaginable conditions.

It had never occurred to the family that they should do anything more than their prescribed bits. Edith searching for someone wounded to marry. Mary dithering and lost but to stubborn to write Matthew and tell him anything. Her mother and father carrying on in their way-acting as if patriotism meant carrying on as if the war was a mere blip in the social season. Sybil began to feel it gnawing at her insides, the inactivity pushing her ever closer to a kind of madness. If she'd carried on she knew she'd come to hate them, hate herself even more.

One day she simply packed her bags. And that night when Downton slept she crept away, sneaking toward a new life. Six months later she was standing on the French coast wearing a nursing uniform. Then and only then did she write to her sister. Mary had the task of telling her parents, Sybil had like the men around them marched off to war.

That had been nine months ago, nine months was a lifetime out here. Most of her progressive ideas had fallen away, what was left was a developing work ethic, a stubborn determination, and a will that she might save a few lives. Still, she ached for some of the comforts of the old life, even if she could not really imagine herself back at Downton.

The sound of heavy footsteps disrupted her thoughts. Turning away from the amputated wound, she walked briskly toward the incoming matron preparing herself for a tongue lashing for her sin of the moment. Instead the woman offered a unusually warm smile, "Your brother is here. A captain." Sybil restrained herself from smiling, the matron was a tigress with her nurses but she turned into a mewling infant at the sight of an officer. "He said he would return this evening and take you to supper in town." Sybil nodded and turned back toward her work. It was only ten or so minutes later in the midst of changing a bandaged drenched in blood and pus that it occurred to her that she had no brothers.

Preparing to go out that night, which was really just donning her nicest uniform, Sybil reflected that nine months ago she would have blurted out that she had no brother. War had taught her to hold her tongue and keep her counsel. It was best she'd learned to take everything moment to moment without rushing heedlessly toward any action or conclusion, Granny she thought would approve of that course of action.

Stepping into the hall she called a quick goodbye to her roommate. Crossing into the front of the building she stopped suddenly saying, "You?"

"Do you have another brother?" He said a light flickering in his blue eyes.

"Matthew." She called hurrying toward him, and since they thought she was his brother no one thought anything of the way she collapsed against him holding tightly as if he was a life raft in a stormy sea.

"Older brother." Sybil said as she walked arm and arm with Matthew toward the restaurant. They had driven but 20 minutes from the hospital and found a town where people were living normal lives. It seemed a miracle, a place without blood or shattered limbs. A place where people went to shops and lived a normal life, with only the sounds of war. "However did you think of this?"

"Oh I am full of mysterious and magical ideas." He replied lightly, sounding a little strained as if unused to levity.

"However did you find out where I was…"

Matthew shrugged, "There are an infinite number of casualty stations."

The idea of Matthew visiting place after place looking for her, caused Sybil to tighten her hold on his arm, she could only squeak out, "Thank you."

The restaurant was small and the menu pathetic. Still it felt so good to be away from blood and the trenches that Matthew and Sybil felt as if they stumbled upon one of Mrs. Padmore's delicious meals. As they ate they caught up on trivial matters.

"Mother wrote Edith is to be married." Matthew said taking a sip of the sickly sweet tea.

Sybil fought the urge to roll her eyes trying to force an optimism she hardly felt. "He is a pilot."

"Good god." Matthew said sitting his tea cup down.

"She might as well don a black gown, become used to the color." Sybil replied coolly.

Matthew eyed her for a moment before observing, "That does not sound like you."

"This past year has disabused me of all of my romantic notions." Sybil did not offer further explanations, trusting Matthew to understand.

He did, though he said sadly, "That is a very sad thing." He paused only briefly to eat a bite of the concoction on his plate before saying, "Mother wrote me about Branson's actions." Matthew kept his tone cool, unsure the exact nature of Sybil and Branson's relationship.

Sybil sighed quietly, "He told me once that he was a socialist not a revolutionary." The end of the sentence was said so softly he strained to hear her words. "That was a lie apparently."

Matthew considered her words carefully, "Perhaps it was not….. at the time. This war seems to have changed everything." He looked down at his hands as if seeking an answer.

"He wrote to me," Sybil confided looking over Matthew's shoulder. "He was so proud to be going home, so proud of what would happen." She shook her head as if trying to dismiss the notion. "I cannot think about it, its to awful."

Matthew nodded putting his hand gently atop her shoulder. "If you need to…"

"What is to discuss?" She said harshly, "It is all my fault. I encouraged him."

"No," Matthew said firmly, "Branson was a grown man he had his own beliefs. You may have encouraged him, but his choices were his and his alone."

"If I had not encouraged him." Matthew was silent knowing that self-recriminations were often impossible to dislodge. "I did encourage him you know. My votes for women, education…. All those ideas fed into his own revolutionary ideas."

Matthew considered her words carefully, measuring his own response. "It may be correct that your ideas encouraged his own, but your differing paths indicate he could have made different choices. If," Matthew added pointedly, "You feel his path was incorrect. Myself, I believe in Irish home rule."

Sybil looked up in surprise, "I do too."

"Then perhaps… Branson's demise is better than others who fall for madness."

It was a suggestion, and one Sybil knew she would need to contemplate for awhile. For the moment she merely reached across and squeezed his hand, "Thank you for listening."

"Of course," He said formally. "Any time." He promised.

He might have said more. He might have said a thousand things, but something made further reply not only unnecessary but also impossible. For the man sitting next to them loudly gasped and then without a further word dropped to the floor.

"Oh my." Said Sybil scarcely guessing that she and Matthew were about to start on a wholly different experience in the war.


	2. Chapter 2

The local authorities arrived rapidly and the body was examined, measured and carried away. Sybil and Matthew watched all of this with a kind of rapt attention, as if watching a play performed slowly for their benefit. From these routines they learned the basics of the man's life even if there were gaping holes regarding the precise mechanism of his death. His name was Dan Malone he was the owner of a tavern. He apparently had no wife or children, but no one could know for sure. The barest bones of information, but strangely interesting all the same, if one had any imagination, and Sybil had always had a abundance of imagination.

The constable blustered in coughing and talking at the same time, asking a series of bumbling questions. The man by the name of Frederick looked to be around the age of 60 with a bulbous reddened nose. He was overstuffed into a uniform that seemed ill suited to encompass his girth.

When Frederick finally turned his attention to them, he sighed and coughed, a wet, phlegmatic sound that made Sybil wish she had a bottle of cough mixture. "Would you mind if I sat down?" He asked tiredly. Matthew stood and offered his own chair, then crossed the room to fetch another for himself. "Not as young as I used to be." He said apologetically. "My son got called up and so I got the old job."

Matthew wasn't certain just how to respond to that so he said only, "It's an admirable thing." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sybil trying to cover a smirk, it reminded him of a salty desert and a moment when he thought… He pushed the memory from his mind explaining, "I don't know how much assistance we can provide. We were merely eating when the gentleman collapsed."

"Did you know him?" Sybil asked interestedly. Having lived in a small village most of her life she recognized that small populations generally nurtured a spider web style of interdependence.

The man coughed, reaching for his handkerchief he said, "He ran the local pub. Not the sort of chap to have any sort of trouble." With this he blew his nose loudly. Wiping it he added, "Malone's father was from Germany." He shrugged, "No surprises the climate you know."

"I don't understand." Sybil said not linking his words together.

"I believe he's saying that Malone's ancestry meant trouble with the local population."

Frederick merely snorted, causing Sybil to exclaim, "Beastly."

"Them's the times." The constable said. "Never less his business suffered. The corner will likely cite heart failure."

Sybil leaned forward engaged by the man's words. "Did he have a history of heart complaints?"

"Not that I'm aware of." The Constable said, "But the sudden drop, the death. It suggests heart disease."

"Heart failure certainly," Sybil agreed thoughtfully, "But disease perhaps not."

The constable seemed to notice her uniform for the first time, "You are a nurse?"

"Yes at the casualty hospital."

The man nodded, "Commendable work."

Sybil ignored the hint of superiority she heard in his voice. It puzzled her that so many men seemed appalled by the notion of well bred ladies entering nursing. "It is." Sybil answered slightly more pointed than necessary.

"Is there any further way we can assist you?" Matthew questioned, lest Sybil tear off on one of her tangents.

"No, no." The man said and promptly lifted his handkerchief to his nose and blew for several minutes, which rather ended the conversation..

"He wants a simple solution." Sybil surmised irritably as they pulled away from the restaurant.

"He's tired, half-worn out." Matthew said adding, "Pressed back into work due to the war." He recognized at some level he was forever a solicitor offering alibis and excuses for everything.

"That doesn't excuse him not doing his absolute best."

A smile tugged at Matthew's lips as he replied, "I thought you'd let go of your romantic notions."

Sybil smiled before asking, "Brother you feel like making a side trip on the way back to the hospital."

"Are we going to talk to the village doctor?" He asked. Sybil smiled brightly which was incentive enough for any side trip she might request, Matthew decided.

The doctor was pottering around his garden when Matthew and Sybil arrived. The owner of the restaurant had provided both his name and his address and they arrived within 10 minutes. Like the constable, Dr. Avers was an elderly man who had retired some years ago. Unlike the constable however he was lively and seemed engaged in their account of events.

"Malone was a character," He said puffing on his pipe. His wife had welcomed Matthew and Sybil into their home and provided them proper tea and some tasty biscuits though she apologized that due to the war she'd had to resort to some interesting recipe ingredients.

"What do you mean?" Sybil asked curiously.

Once they'd sat down Matthew had remained silent, not out of disinterest but rather because this side of Sybil did interest him. He remembered a small slip of a girl who had very modern ideas and interjected them regardless' of her parents or grandmother's opinions. Still, that girl was not nearly as direct as the woman before him had clearly become.

"Eh," Avers said, "Tricky, secretive, and he was new here."

"Oh," Sybil questioned taking in everything, "How long had he lived here?"

"Only 12 years." The doctor said causing Matthew to smile into his hand. "His pub made a potful, but I was never easy with him." As if anticipating Sybil's next question he said, "He was secretive, shady almost. I never felt I had the full story."

"Do you know why he might be secretive?" Sybil's questions were so good Matthew half wondered if she had some experience in this line. So much of war was hunches and hopes, she seemed adapt at both.

The doctor shook his head, "No idea."

Sybil said, "May I see your surgery?" It was so out of the blue, Matthew lifted an eyebrow, but Sybil merely rose and followed the doctor into his surgery,

Mrs. Avers turned smiling toward Matthew. She had been so quiet that he'd forgotten she was there. "Could you do with another cup of tea, lad?"

Recognizing the faint hint of a Scottish accent in her tone he answered, "Eh." She smiled and walked toward the kitchen, leaving him alone in the small den. The small comfortable house was not unlike the one in which he'd grown up. The cozy hearth lined with two or three family pictures drew his attention and he rose to inspect the photographs. The first was a photo of a younger version the Avers with a small boy seated on her lap. Beside it was a framed military image of a determined looking young man in a Navy uniform. Looking at the image, Matthew thought that most houses in the empire probably had a similar picture. Young men under glass forever. It felt ghoulish and wrong so many dead, and yet there they sat on hearths and tables looking young and unsullied, as if war was just a grand vacation one never came back from….

Staring at the image he was startled by Mrs. Aver's soft voice beside him saying, "Our boy," Matthew smiled causing her to add, "He'd taken over his father's practice. He joined up straight away. Said King and Country came first. He's somewhere in France." Matthew detected both pride and sorrow in her tones. Shaking her head she said, "We haven't heard from him in a bit . Corse he's so busy with his work. But the waiting and the wondering." She walked out mumbling about the new pot of tea being nearly ready. Her words caused Matthew to think uneasily about the letters from Edith and Robert that he'd left unanswered for far to long., and the letters from Downton that he never opened. The thought remained even after Sybil returned and they had tea and concluded their visit.

As they were walking toward his automobile, Sybil began rambling, revisiting the particulars of this case which clearly interested her greatly. "A reasonably healthy, reasonably young man dies." Sybil noted adding, "No previous health issues or complaints. It feels a bit pat to me."

She glanced up at him expectantly as if wanting an answer causing Matthew to say, " I have absolutely no medical training and alas law school precluded my entry into the world of detectives and sleuthing."

"Come on you must have an opinion." As if expecting an unwanted reply she said, "A healthy man with secrets dies and the locals want to shut it up totally ignoring that some of the locals hated him. That screams mystery and ill doing."

"Shall I fetch your deerstalker and calabash pipe?" Matthew queried in a matter of fact tone.

Sybil narrowed her eyes responding, "Funny."

Matthew glanced at his watch, "While I wish we could carry this on to ever higher levels of crime, deception and intrigue the time."

Sybil glanced down at the watch pinned on her uniform. "It's to soon." She said sadly. His appearance, dinner, the lovely mystery it had all gone to quickly. It felt as if mere minutes had passed instead of hours.

"I can visit you again." He promised stepping closer to her. "Now that we're both here." He said referring to England. That pleased her so much she stood on tip toe to kiss his cheek.

Focused as they were on each other, they did not notice Dr. Avers staring at them. And they obviously could not know he walked from that window, to the phone and that once his call was connected he said only, "We may have a problem."

"It is a funny thing," Sybil observed quietly. They were in the car driving back toward the camp. It was well past nine and Sybil was certain that she would have a severe tongue lashing from the Matron. Still, her dissatisfaction came from less from that likelihood, than the lack of answers about Malone's death. Beyond that too she was beginning to feel the numbing effect of going toward, rather than away from the wounded. Seeing Matthew's puzzled expression she elaborated adding, "Death." She paused thinking her observation out, needing to explain it to herself as much as Matthew. "I see it every day in the wards, you see it in the battles, but when its just a village restaurant." She stopped talking letting the idea drift away.

Mathew was quiet, reflective almost when he said, "When I first saw a wounded man I vomited. Got sick straight away. Not heroic," He said ruefully, "But I did. Last week, I walked by four men who were in my unit, dead. I scarcely noticed. " He glanced over at her, "Maybe that's the worst part of this business, I care less ,and I grow less certain I could ever care again." Sybil started to disagree, but decided no answer would really fit. So she remained silent as they bumped along the road, drawing ever closer to the dead.

Some moments later he stopped the car before the hospital. They climbed out and stood awkwardly unsure what if anything to say. They had left behind the landscape of peace and easy friendly goodbyes.

Finally Sybil decided to speak saying, "Interesting night." She offered a tentative smile.

"Most interesting." He agreed. "Dinner and a death inquiry."

More seriously she added "You may think I am silly, but I do believe something is going on in that town."

Sybil sighed not bothering to disguise her frustration, "It doesn't much matter, though. Its not as if we can get any insight."

"Perhaps we can," Matthew said leaning forward, "Dr. Avers wife invited me to spend the rest of the week with them."

"Brilliant!" Sybil exclaimed excitedly as a broad smile covered her face. "Brilliant! But," She said suddenly feeling confused, "Aren't you going home?"

"Home," Matthew repeated the word.

"Downton." She said pointedly.

"Aside from my mother there is nothing for me in Downton." Matthew pronounced in the curtest of tones.

"I don't believe that." Sybil retorted with a decisiveness she generally saved for her political discussions, "And I don't believe that you do either." Not wanting to press the point she requested, "Will you tell me how things go with the doctor?"

Matthew smiled clearly relieved at her words. "Of course."

Then with nothing left to say she leaned on her tiptoes kissed his cheek and said, "Goodnight Brother." Giving a last fond wave, Sybil turned and walked away. Matthew buried his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, watching her walk away, before returning to his car and driving back to town. As he drove he tried to cast off the guilt he felt at being so relieved to be away from the hospital and the battles and the ceaseless death. Still he felt the acrid odor of death still close-by.

Later laying in the darkness Sybil kept reliving the whole evening in her mind. The drive across the country, the meal, and of course poor Malone's death and Matthew. It kept circling back around to Matthew back to Matthew. Ever since the rally she'd been fond of him. But he was Mary's, and she did adore Branson. Now Mary was at Downton, and Branson was gone. And here they were here in this absolute nightmare of a place, together none the less.

Why had he come? Crossing a war zone to find her. Matthew was dutiful but this crossed that line. He had knocked a man down in the square. Now he had again risked physical harm for her. And why? He hadn't said. Perhaps in this life though much would forever go unsaid, she decided.

Still as Sybil drifted off toward sleep, a persistent thought kept nagging at her. Her father had tried to work his channels get her recalled to London. Her mother had written teary letters about how much she needed her at home. Granny had tried to maneuver her social contacts to effect a change. They'd all done exactly what they could do within their little Downton confines, within their restricted social roles. They all loved her, but they'd moved only as far as social roles would allow. Matthew hadn't done any of that. He'd taken leave, time when he was supposed to get away from this place, and crossed camps and borders merely to find her. It all kept circling around and confusing her. Past, present, family, the unknowable future. And it all kept coming back to Matthew.

**Fresh hot tea and scones for anyone who replies. **


	3. Chapter 3

_This chapter is a bit different and hopefully gives some perspective to what Matthew's been through. Do let me know what you think._

The blasts of gunfire reverberated in his head, it had been exploding for days. Canon fire, artillery fire, even the explosion of the bodies seemed to make the most horrible racket. The sound of the endless gunfire made his head ache miserably, disrupting even the idea of sleep. In that week of endless noise, he yearned for nothing so much as silence. He'd eschew warm baths, and cheerfully consume whatever slop put before him if only the noise would just stop. Even waiting to go over the top he prayed for it to just stop. Pushing forward he ran toward the explosions.

All at once he felt the booming resume growing louder and louder. In tandem with the increasingly deafening booms, he felt a hot explosion in his gut, and like the dirt around him he was blasted high into the air, dirt filling his mouth and down the back of his throat. The falling seemed to go on and on until suddenly he was dropping, dropping so fast hitting the ground with a shattering thud, as if every bone was glass and shattered from the contact. The pain… unbearable seemed to sear through his stomach and spine scalding his insides. His entire body felt aflame, raging at the pain.

In an instant he heard someone call his name. Intending to answer he opened his mouth but hot, sticky blood filled his throat and mouth. Turning his head he tried to cough the blood out of his mouth, but suffered a bowel contraction like nothing he could have imagined. It felt as if someone had forced him to swallow a odd branding iron that seared against his entire insides.

The world seemed to darken, as if dusk had arrived hours and hours early. The voice, he could make out no face, kept peppering him with questions, but the words seemed nonsensical and sounded like nothing more than a squawk. Trying to keep his eyes open, trying to see the officer over him only made the pain worse, easy, easier to let his eyes close let that dark, awful world fade away. And that was it, that was how it all ended. And when he reached that point, the moment no one could ever come back, he came back. He woke screaming and clenching the bed sheets.

Trying to quell the rapid beating of his heart, Matthew exhaled several ragged breaths. Opening his fingers he let the sheet fall back to the mattress. "You're here. You're safe." He whispered. "No one will hurt you." He was back to nursery reassurances, as if the only fear he had was the monster in his closet. Lifting his arm Matthew quickly mopped his forehead with the heel of his hand.

Wanting to regain his bearings he glanced at the sliver of window unhidden by the shade. It was dark lacking even a hint of gray, meaning it was still the blackest of night. Reaching over Matthew grabbed his wrist watch and squinted at the numerals. Four a.m. Too early to be up, to late to bother going back to sleep and refacing the demons. The hounds of hell were now permanently perched just behind his eyelids, waiting for him nightly.

Pushing back the covers, Matthew fumbled for the lamp switch. Bathed in light the room seemed familiar. A desk with a few trophies. A university pennant. Diplomas. Not unlike his old room in Manchester. A room for a boy-man who'd gone off to war, to come back or not decided entirely on the dictates of dreadful chance. Sighing he put his feet to the cool floor and crossed the room. Matthew pulled some letters from his coat pocket. Rustling in his kit, he found a pack of stationary and a fountain pen. He spent the next hour replying to Edith's missive and clipped newspaper story on a free Albania.

"How was the night?" Sybil questioned entering the ward at a brisk pace. The night nurse glanced up at surprise. Sybil wasn't due on until six, generally though she tried to be at work around five. That way she had time to review the patient information, fix the morning tea, and in general ease into the world of wounds and infections.

The girl looking pale said, "Fine mam. Fine."

Sybil smiled not recognizing the girl, "Are you new here?"

"Yes," The girl said looking down as if inspecting her feet. "Nora."

"This your first casualty station?" Nora nodded. "Bit of a shock?"

"A bit." Nora admitted coloring a little.

Sybil gave her a reassuring smile, "You'll get used to it. Well," She amended, "As used to it as you can." Sybil offered a reassuring chuckle, though she did not feel like reassuring anyone, still she found it helped with the nerves of patients and sometimes other nurses.

Nora nodded saying a little shyly, "I want to do my best for them."

"You are just being here." Sybil assured her firmly. "Trust me lots of people bail in training. You've passed that, now you've got to figure this out. Trust me you will."

Nora clearly cheered by Sybil's words offered, "Should we go over the patient records?"

"Absolutely," Sybil agreed opening the first chart.

It astounded Matthew to look up at the clock and realize it was 6:30, He'd become lost in his ruminations about a free Albania and response to Edith's letter. His response ran to six pages. He knew Sybil would not mind, and might easily pen a reply twice as long. Matthew liked Sybil's letters, she wrote about things that made him think, reengage his mind to a world beyond war and endless death. His mother wrote him letters about her work at the hospital, Robert wrote nationalistic tomes about doing one's duty. He rather dreaded both of their letters for they tended to leave his quite blue. The other letters from Downton were chattier, easier to digest.

Cora wrote short brief, but utterly kind notes, Mosely discussed the household and his father's gardening, and the Dowager relayed all the tiresome things people in Downton had done-typically these letters mentioned his mother excessively. What Mary wrote he did not know, and told himself he did not care.

Either way replying to his correspondence engaged him so thoroughly that Matthew was surprised to look up, and see bright sunlight streaming under the shade, and hear the sounds of breakfast being made. Lifting his kit he hurried toward the bathroom feeling absurdly pleased at the notion of hot water and a clean towel for his toilet.

Hearing water gurgling through the pipes Angus Avers turned to his wife, "I suppose you heard the lad last night?"

"I did." She continued kneading the dough she worked into the most delicious loaves in much of southern England. "I fear to imagine what he's seen."

"Yes. Angus said filling his pipe. "He must have had a rough time. Did he say anything to you?"

"Not a word." She replied leaning against the counter. "I don't believe he's a confessional sort."

Angus nodded saying, "Must try and keep him cheerful."

"We shall do that." She agreed hearing footfalls on the stairs.

Matthew entered the room pulling on his coat and calling, "Good morning."

After greeting him, Dr. Avers said heartily, "We don't stand on ceremony here, lad. You need not don the jacket for breakfast."

"Thank you," Matthew said shrugging the jacket off. "I hope you do not object to my regular dress."

"Not at all." Elspeth said, "I am sure tis good to get out of the green."

"Very, very nice." Matthew agreed.

"Now," Angus said touching his pipe to Matthew's arm, "My woman makes the finest breakfast in the entire kingdom."

Elspeth smiled showing herself to be pleased, but said only, "What can I make you?"

"Just tea and a piece of toast, jam if you have it."

Angus laughed, a comfortable rugged sort of laugh, "Elspeth has jams of every berry you can imagine."

"Strawberry?" Matthew asked hopefully.

She nodded, "We also have an egg. Would you like it?"

"No. Thank you very much. It is all to kind of you. But just tea and toast."

Angus rose, "Well I have a few tasks to see too fore the day gets to high upon me. You will excuse me."

Elspeth Avers waited until she heard the door close before turning to face Matthew. "Mr. Avers and I have been married 42 years. And for all 42 of those years he has said that same phrase every morning."

Matthew smiled pouring himself some tea from the kettle. "That must be very reassuring."

"For 30 odd years it near bout drove me mad. Now though tis comforting." Removing a jar of strawberry jam from her pantry she asked, "Where are you from me boy?"

Matthew spooned some sugar in his tea, stirring it mechanically. "I grew up in Manchester, but before the war I moved to Yorkshire."

"Employment opportunities?"

"Of a sort." He agreed. Deciding to avert the question and all its uncomfortable angles, he said only, "I am a solicitor. Industrial law if you can imagine."

Lowering a plate with two triangles of toast Elspeth sighed softly, "Still, I am sure the military have made good use of your specialty."

"Not really." Matthew said bluntly, "Not at all actually."

She nodded saying, "I think Jamie felt the same. My boy. Jamie." She said the final word with a vocal caress, as if just saying the word pleased her.

"He's a doctor though," Matthew stated trying to achieve an more optimistic tone. "I am certain that his skills must be of great use."

Elspeth looked down at her feet before slowly shaking her head. "Jamie did not desire surgery and amputation. He wanted to come back practice as a country doctor. Remove some tonsils, treat the town's hypochondriac's, bronchitis and the lot. He did not imagine this world."

"I suppose none of us did." Matthew admitted sadly.

The jarring ring of the phone saved Elspeth from forming a reply and she went off to answer the call, almost simultaneously Dr. Avers walked back in via the back stairs. "Lad," Avers said putting his bag on the table. "Do you have plans for your day?"

Matthew gulped down the last of his tea answering, "None Sir."

"Perhaps you'd care to join me on my rounds?"

Matthew rose and reached for his jacket, "I would very much."

"It would be nice to be with a young man again." Avers said a hint of sadness creeping into his tone. His creased mouth forced a smile.

The breakfast room door flung open as Mrs. Avers virtually sprinted in, "Angus, the Constable telephoned he wants you to come to his office straightaway."

Dr. Avers nodded saying, "Well we best be off lad." He kissed Elspeth on the cheek and walked out with Matthew on his heels.

Sybil had spent a good part of the morning tending to a pair of patients who had entered with minimal wounds, but who had developed pneumonia. She had bathed their faces, dipped their sheets in ice water before putting them on the beds…desperate for any trick to reduce their fevers. As if spiting her, both men's temperatures continued to hover around 104. Her training had made her aware of the frightful limits of medicine. She could mop brows, but if the aspirin did not reduce their fevers both men would surely die. She went back to her ministrations with determined focus. A half an hour later she took each man's temperature again. Neither had dropped one degree, somehow that felt like a summation for her entire nursing career. Ridiculous amounts of effort producing little to no result. Frustrated she tossed aside the rag feeling desperate for a cup of tea and a bit of air.

Rising from her chair she turned away from the bed walking hurriedly down the aisle. Buried in her thoughts she almost collided with the matron. "Nurse," the woman said coolly. "The local authorities have asked for your assistance." Sybil gave her a questioning look, but remained silent assuming any queries would only earn a longer lecture. "I told them that I or numerous other nurses would be capable of fulfilling the task, but the Army captain was quite insistent. He wants you to assist local authorities."

"I see." Sybil answered keeping a straight face.

The nurse handed her a document. "You are due back in 72 hours."

Sybil kept the smile from spreading across her face until she had cleared the ward.

Turning the corner Sybil saw a familiar figure leaning against the wall. Matthew was wearing a pair of khaki pants with a white shirt and a blue jacket. She stood there for a moment drinking in the sight of him in his regular clothes as if they could drive back to their normal lives. In that vein she called happily, "Thanks for the break."

"Get your things," Matthew advised tensely explaining, "There's been another murder."


	4. Chapter 4

"You know in spite of the situation, I am terribly grateful you got me a weekend pass." Sybil said as the hospital faded into the background. The further they traveled from the hospital the more relaxed she felt, and with each mile she grew a tinge more excited about the possibilities of 72 hours with little blood and much Matthew.

Matthew glanced over at her asking in a challenging fashion, "I got you that?" Since he was not practicing law, Matthew found it useful to hone his oratory skills in his daily conversation. This tendency was agreed by virtually all his acquaintances to be extremely annoying. Assuming Sybil would be of much the same mind set, he said by way of an explanation. "Evelyn Napier."

Sybil mouthed the word questioning, "Mary's friend?"

"I believe the correct term is Mary's suitor." Sybil detected only a light tensing of his words, his face remaining determinedly neutral. Still, he was a solicitor, he likely possessed the talent for disguising his true emotions.

Sybil considered his words, realizing with a certain surprise that this was the first time he had mentioned Mary's name since the garden party. "She won't marry Mr. Napier." Her words were exceedingly determined. "She only likes him."

Matthew offered no response instead questioning, "Do you want information on the second murder?"

"Oh you brought the nurse very well done." Constable Frederick bellowed seeing Sybil entering the Butcher Shop with Matthew. Poking the doctor on the arm he laughingly said, "Perhaps the nurse can assist you. Surely a doctor cannot solve such problems without assistance…" He then let off another chorus of belligerent chuckles.

"I asked Mr. Crawley to bring Nurse Crawley." Doctor Avers explained rather cutting the Constable off at the knees. "I thought we might well benefit from any insight she could provide."

The Constable coughed several more times finally saying coldly, "As you wish, as you wish." He stormed off across the shop muttering about women and modern times.

"Very set in his ways." Doctor Avers pronounced as if diagnosis a case of persistent colic. "The man is called Brueller. He's been here 15-20 years. Butcher obviously." He concluded gesturing at the board listing the meat products intended for sale.

"How was he killed?" Sybil asked seeing no evidence of the victim or the crime. Seeing Dr. Avers glance meaningfully over at Matthew, she interjected a bit incredulously, "You are asking him if you can show me?"

"Well I thought…" Dr. Avers began uneasily.

"Women are perfectly capable."

"Thank you Mrs. Pankhurst," Matthew said glancing meaningfully at Sybil, before saying to Dr. Avers, "She is composed of sterner stuff than I am." Matthew remarked cordially adding. "I'll wait out here."

Sybil trailed Dr. Avers into the back room. Pieces of chicken, goose, mutton, pork, beef, and cut sausage were hanging on metal rings descending only a few feet from the floor. The accompanying scents made Sybil believe that perhaps vegetarians might have the correct idea. "I don't understand," Sybil admitted precisely as her eyes shifted a few degrees and she saw a naked man strung from a hook. "Oh!"

The body of Herman Mueller had been stripped, his clothes left in a pile a few feet away. He was then somehow hooked onto one of the prongs used for hanging meat. Like the meat surrounding him, Mueller was as dead as the day long. His brown eyes wide open seemed to be staring at any who came to look on him.

"Perhaps now you understand my concern about showing you this…" Avers said modestly averting his eyes from the corpse and Sybil.

"Not really," Sybil answered rather bluntly. "May I see the wound?" Avers walked forward and turned the body so that Sybil could view the wound. "The hook seems to have entered just at the shoulder blade."

Avers nodded, "I measured it earlier its about two inches below the shoulders. The hook likely pierced the rhomboids. The muscles there likely held the metal in place."

Sybil let her gaze roam downward following the trail of blood, past his buttocks and legs to the ground where it formed a circle. Between her nursing in the war, and her training at the London, Sybil had fancied that she had witnessed about every way a human being could die, but this was something different. She'd witnessed prostitutes with cut breasts and genitals sliced open, seen her share of wounds from knives and fists in the East End but this… This was a kind of brutality that was new if unsurprising-if nursing had taught her nothing else it was that people were forever banging about in search of new ways to inflict pain and injury to others.

"Did he suffer?" The question was clinical, Sybil had learned to detach from any emotions, and narrow her focus to health related fields.

The doctor studied the nude man at length before shaking his head. "I think we'll find the hook severed the spinal cord. He probably endured hours before he died," He said flatly, "Still the pain may be less than we imagine. His anxiety of course was of course terrible…the pain though…" He turned toward the Constable. "We'll need to get him down, I'd like to do a proper autopsy this afternoon."

"May I assist?" Sybil requested hopefully.

Avers smiled easily, "I was rather hoping that, my girl."

"How are we getting this fellow down?" The constable asked sounding piqued.

"Matthew?" Sybil loudly shouted in the form of a question.

"No," Matthew called from the next room, "Absolutely not!"

Ten minutes later he was assisting the Constable and Dr. Avers in taking down a corpse. Like so much of what had happened and continued to happen since he'd met up with Sybil the night before, Matthew had no idea how that had happened at all.

After driving across the village with a corpse, a task which Matthew found even more distasteful than he had imagined. Upon arrival at the Avers, Matthew immediately went upstairs for a wash, leaving Sybil and Dr. Avers to sort out moving the body. He let the cold water run down his face trying to get the smell of the dead out of his nostrils, tried harder not to think just how many bodies he'd seen. He sat in the bathroom for a quarter of an hour getting hold of his emotions, forcing a mask of blandness of emotion and memory.

Coming downstairs, he found Sybil entirely to bemused by the situation, which rather vexed him. Additionally, he learnt that Sybil was now staying at the Avers too. Feeling quite certain Sybil would be utterly incapable of not rehashing the details of the murder to Mrs. Avers, Matthew made an excuse of needing to catch up on his correspondence and escaped upstairs.

Alone in Jamie's room Matthew shed his jacket folding it over the desk. Grabbing his dog eared copy of Dubliners, he kicked off his shoes and laid down atop the covers. Opening it he tried to bury himself in Dublin and in Joyce's fragmented, puzzle worthy world. Lost in the streets of Ireland he was startled by a knock on his door.

Glancing at his wrist watch he was surprised to see an entire hour had passed. Guiltily he called, "Come in."

"Hi," Sybil said strolling in casually.

Sitting up Matthew reached for his jacket saying, "Just a second."

"Oh Matthew," She said chuckling, "You are so stuffy. I have spent the last year nursing men, and you reach for a jacket out of fear I might see you in shirt sleeves and require vapors to revive myself."

Matthew laughed lightly, "You would have the war undo years of my mother's training." He teased lightly, but he made no further move toward his jacket.

"Why did you come up here?" She questioned taking a seat in an overstuffed arm chair near the window.

"I was not up for round three of the murder of the butcher." He admitted feeling no shame at saying so.

She smiled, "You did look a bit queasy in the car."

"I'm afraid I do not posses your iron stomach, and," He said softly, "Nor your demeanor. You are of stronger stuff than I…"

"Not really," She said adjusting her skirt. He noticed she'd changed from her nursing uniform and was wearing a gray skirt and black sweater. "It's simply what I have become used to. If Mama knew some of what I'd seen…" She shook her head unable to even consider what Cora's reaction might be… "It's all so impossible."

Matthew turned over propping his head on his hand, studying her closely as he spoke, "Is that the reason you have not gone home?"

Sybil looked up a feeling of surprise and a certain unease spreading about her, "How?"

"Your father wrote me," Matthew explained adding, "He said you haven't, even for leave."

"I spent my leave in London visiting my aunt." Sybil said tightly as if it explained all, knowing it explained nothing.

"Per your grandmother you scandalized your aunt by spending your days in the east end."

"The London is at the forefront of infectious disease research."

"Being in the east end, I would imagine it would have to be." He stopped hearing Sybil's laughter.

Putting her hand over her mouth, Sybil shook her head, "Oh Matthew you sound so like Granny or Papa."

"I was raised in the middle class which was far more judgmental than your father and grandmother."

"And what does your middle class rearing say about me?" Sybil asked curiously

"It says you have hurt your family."

"I know that." Sybil admitted softly. "But its really not fair," She protested her anger flaring anew, "You and William and Thomas all left your families and homes for service. I have just done the same, and everyone acts as if I've abandoned them."

Matthew considered her words seeing the truth in them, in spite of rather than because of her emotionalism. "I suppose that's true."

"All I want to do is do my part. And trust me as soon as the war's over I'll go straight back to my old life."

"I rather doubt that." Matthew said dubiously. "After this I hardly think dinner and dances and the season will still have the old allure."

"Well," Sybil admitted shrugging, "I was never all that keen about all that anyway. So I suppose you are right about that."

Matthew smiled looking exceedingly pleased with himself, "Not that it really matters. I think so much of what mattered before is finished."

"Papa would say you sounded defeatist."

"Realist." He corrected adding, "Either way none of that especially matters. We will have to deal with whatever hand we're dealt. But you being estranged from your family we can deal with now."

Bristling Sybil insisted, "Is that why you found me. To tell me to go home."

"Of course not." Matthew answered quickly.

"Are you going to tell Papa where I am?"

"No." He said sounding put off by the question.

"Oh," Sybil said sitting back against the chair. and feeling rather sorry for being so accusatory. "Sorry." It was a small word and one Sybil was not rather used to using.

Sitting up Matthew placed his hands on his knees saying earnestly, "I came to find you because I wanted to know you were alright. I'd like to be able to tell Robert you are well, but I think he'd much prefer it if he heard it from you."

"I write letters…sometimes." Matthew lifted an eyebrow, and she was sure he had copied the trick from Mary, mimicking the exact arch of her brow. "Let's make a deal… you help me with this case and I will think about taking some leave and going home."

"That has got to be the weakest deal ever proposed." He said watching her shrug. "I suppose I have to take it though." He sounded dissatisfied with the arrangement, scowling lest his feelings were not clear.

"Fantastic!" Sybil said rising to her feet. "I'm going to help Mrs. Avers with lunch." She said adding, "After lunch I am going to assist with the autopsy."

"Should be a charming afternoon." Matthew said dryly. "Please feel free to tell me absolutely nothing about it."

"And after dinner tonight you can take me to Malone's pub." Sybil put in heading for the door. "We have to start collecting evidence."

Matthew looked aghast insisting, "I cannot take you to a pub!"

"Why not?"

"You do not take nice girls to pubs." He declared as if the fact should be obvious to all but the true imbeciles of the world.

"Well," Sybil said pointedly, "You will be taking this very nice girl to a pub."

"I most certainly am not." Matthew insisted and sounded to his own ears rather stuffy.

Sybil laughed saying cheerfully, "Matthew you must realize that you will never win in an argument with a Crawley girl." She said closing the door and hurrying downstairs.

"She's probably correct." Matthew replied crossly to the empty room, and pondering what nice girls drank at pubs.

_Thanks for the most kind reviews. And I truly appreciate that readers are open to both the darker and lighter parts of the story, it's a definite balancing act and one I'm glad people are enjoying. Now off to watch the series two preview for the 10th__ time._


	5. Chapter 5

Eagle's Landing was located on the fringes of the village, as if even its builders imagined it a place separate from the nicer parts of the area. The building itself had a ramshackle appearance with the stones appearing dingy and badly aged. The whole place seemed aged like a second hand mackintosh worn threadbare.

Dilapidated would be the kindest term for the interior which had chairs that had undoubtedly been around for a good century, showing every single day of that time. Not that the patrons would have noticed. They looked so thoroughly unpleasant, Matthew expected Sybil to turn right around and leave. Instead, she cheerfully crossed the room and sidled up to the bar as if this was an everyday occurrence in her life saying, "I'll have a beer."

Seeming more bemused than concerned at her behavior, Matthew observed lowly lest anyone else try to eavesdrop, "Easing into things eh?" Seeing the barman's unstated question Matthew said, "Same." Returning his attention to Sybil he said, "What next Sherlock?"

"We need to survey the place and try to gather information," Sybil explained scanning the room with feigned casualness. "Try not to attract undue attention."

Matthew mimicked her actions while whispering, "Might have considered that undue attention idea when you came in."

"Was that a little over the top?" She asked.

He angled his hand rocking it gently, "A smidge."

"This is my first time in a pub." She admitted uncomfortably. Matthew nodded a bit to knowingly, causing her to promptly interject, "But it won't be my last."

"That does not surprise me." Matthew replied reaching into his pocket for a pence which he promptly dumped on the bar. Lifting his glass he suggested, "Let's sit over there." He said moving toward a quiet corner table.

Sybil mutely followed him slowly acclimating to the surroundings. She had expected the place to be darker, seedier, full of menacing and terribly interesting figures. The 10, 15 people standing around in small groups talking seemed so dull. "Is this what most pubs are like?"

Matthew turned looking at Sybil incredulously, wondering if she assumed that he made regular visits to pubs. Perhaps she envisioned him driving around in some little car bouncing across the countryside visiting pubs. The idea was so ridiculous and impractical, amusing almost. Still it was best to keep that notion in his pocket, lest Sybil believe that yes Matthew Crawley did survey pubs across the kingdom. Best to change the topic, he decided. So he lifted his beer taking a sip, "Awful." He declared disgustedly. "I have utterly lost any taste for beer."

"You seem to have lost your taste in general today." Sybil responded studying him interestedly. Catching his confused expression, she added, "You barely ate any dinner."

"What a surprise with such appetizing discussion." He said the memory of a heavy meat pie and Sybil and the Dr's enthusiastic retelling of the autopsy causing a small wave of nausea to lurch anew in his stomach.

The sentiment went unnoticed, as Sybil rolled her eyes saying indulgently, "The only time I have seen a person eat less was when my friend Lavinia was going through a plump phase and purchased a new dress for Easter services."

"I am truly grateful that I can bring back pleasant memories." He retorted. Wanting to distract her from further commentary Matthew asked, "Remind me how visiting a pub will help solve two murders."

"In all detective novels…a crucial element of the murder is revealed by someone who is gossipy or intoxicated. And I assumed pubs were full of both."

Matthew rather admired her logic, but the reading of detective fiction rather puzzled him. Robert's library seemed angled to impress rather than to be actually read. Truthfully Mary and Sybil were the only ones he thought who might actually borrow volumes. "Where did you locate detective fiction?"

She smiled as if experiencing a certain pride, "My governess."

"Your governess taught you about murder." He sounded even more incredulous which Sybil would have imagined rather impossible.

"And curtseying." She added casually and rather despairingly, "Actually she didn't teach me. It was more because of her that I learned." She looked up, and realizing that Matthew was clearly not going to ask or assist in the story telling she began explaining, "She was having an affair with one of the stable boys." At her words, Matthew began coughing as if he was going to spit out his drink. "Really Matthew. You do act like Granny. Anyway whenever she wanted…. time… she made me read novels. But she did not check which novels, so I read detective books."

"I thought Mary said her tutor only had religious books."

"That was Miss Planken our first tutor." Sybil explained taking a sip of her beer. "She did … just religious books."

"And she had a romance with the stableman?"

"No, that was our second governess Miss Oliver, Miss Planken had to be" She seemed to grapple for the correct term finally deciding on, "….sent away." Seeing Matthew's disbelieving expression she added pointedly, "All the religion in the world couldn't help her deal with my sisters." She looked up meeting his eyes and suddenly poor Miss Planken was forgotten as she began giggling, thrilled when he simultaneously did the same.

Their laughter was predictably perilously short for a voice began loudly proclaiming, "So another jerry gone. Riddance to rubbish." He half slurred, half shouted expelling a trickle of spit along with his words. He did not seem to notice his state, launching into almost frenetic series of chuckles.

"We need to talk to him." Sybil insisted jabbing Matthew's arm. "Buy him a drink."

"I would really rather not." Matthew answered sounding constricted.

Sybil glanced over looking surprised, "I told you we need evidence, evidence and information."

"He does not know anything." Matthew insisted setting his jaw determinedly.

Sybil shook her head at Matthew before rising and beckoning loudly. "Can we buy you a drink?"

"I'm certain you are much to busy," Matthew interjected quickly and on the whole hopefully, earning him an especially scornful look from Sybil.

The man smiled revealing a set of yellowed teeth, "Not at all, not at all. Be glad to." He stuck out a beefy hand, "Marlowe is the name."

Seeing Matthew wincing, Sybil smiled even more brightly, "Please join us Mr. Marlowe." Gifting him with another bright smile, she asked brightly, "What are you drinking?"

"Beer, bitter." He said easily.

Matthew rose to his feet scowling saying, "I'll get it."

Ignoring him Sybil turned toward the man saying, "You knew Malone?"

"Eh," He said nodding as he turned up his glass eagerly gulping the brew. "Spent a lot of nights here fore the war."

"Were you friends?"

He shrugged rocking his arm causing the beer to slosh up and down in the glass. "He was not the friendly sort." He smiled appreciatively as Matthew handed him a beer. "To your lady."

"She isn…." Matthew began.

Sybil smiled saying, "Thank you so much." Returning to the subject of interest she added effortlessly, "You spent a lot of time at his bar." Sybil pointed out directly.

"He wasn't a bad sort," Marlowe agreed lazily. "But war changes things. A Kraut is a Kraut. There's no place for them in England. "

"But there was a place before," Matthew pronounced somberly. "Before you came here what every night, every couple of nights…"

"Yes." Marlowe said nodding his head. "But that's finished."

Matthew leaned forward, "Just because something is over does not make it finished."

Marlowe seemed to miss his implication pouncing acidly, "The days of Englishmen patronizing Germans is over."

"Perhaps," Sybil agreed evenly, "But that does not explain a relatively healthy middle aged man dying so suddenly."

Marlowe smiled thinly. "Lots of healthy German men dying bout now."

The implied pleasure he seemed to take, chilled Sybil. Before she could say anything Matthew answered coolly, "I'd imagine you know little about that."

"Been to war, you must have heard me talking."

"Yes," Matthew agreed with seeming cordially. "I did hear you talking."

"What you saying?" Marlowe demanded angrily. "You questioning my patriotism?"

Realization or assumption crossed his face and he spat indignantly, "You think I'd be paling around with a Kraut! Or lying about my record."

"I do not know you well enough to assume or reject anything." Matthew responded with seeming neutrality, which Sybil did not believe at all.

"I got a lung shredded to bits due to that sort!"

"Really," Matthew said sounding very bored, "It has not stopped you from boasting."

Standing the man said, "I'm a hero, I fought and killed for this country. You know nuttin bout it. I've put blades through more German bellies than you could ever know Mr. Fancy."

"Oh do shut up!" Matthew yelled rising to his feet and dumping some coins on to the table. "Tell your stories to someone who might believe them!"

"Who do you think you're talking to!" The man bellowed stumbling to his feet.

"A liar." Matthew proclaimed coldly storming toward the door.

Rising Sybil followed him calling, "Matthew! Matthew!"

Stepping into the crisp evening air, Matthew took several deep cleansing breaths. Sybil stormed out angrily, "He won't tell me anything now."

"He did not know anything." Matthew swore angrily. "He was wasting our time."

"What makes you certain?" Sybil demanded irritably.

"He talked to much." Matthew's tone was short and his face was faintly flushed as though anger was taking hold of him. As if wanting to escape his anger, he turned taking long strides hurrying toward the car, away from her. Sybil trailed behind him uncertain of the precise distance between them.

Mrs. Padmore and Mrs. Bryd are teaming up to bake tasty treats for any replies.


	6. Chapter 6

The dual chiming of the grandmother clock in the hall found Sybil no closer to sleep than the single chime at one, or the dozen chimes of an hour before. As soon as they'd returned to the Avers, around ten, Matthew had pled fatigue, heading right up to bed. Sybil had sat downstairs for an hour with Elspeth, making random unintelligible remarks to intelligent questions. She was quite certain that the woman thought her rude or half mad, perhaps both. All the while, Sybil kept replaying the incident in the pub and Matthew's pained expression afterward over and over in her mind.

Sometime after midnight rain began dribbling down the window panes, the climate seeming to mirror her mind. Sybil felt a momentary attack of guilt, rain seemed to always serve as a harbinger of attacks. The hospital was understaffed. Yet, the guilt gave her no desire to return early, and for that matter she could barely consider it. Her mind was still to much on Matthew. Dressed in proper night clothing well almost, in a warm bed, under a comfortable quilt Sybil felt that she should be sleeping peacefully. Instead, she could only turn and toss and toss and turn.

Growing up with sisters and her mother and grandmother, Sybil had only the vaguest ideas about men. Oh she had danced with nice boys and let them fetch her drinks and foods… And she certainly adored Papa… but realistically she knew nothing about men. Then she had gone off to war where she met hundreds and hundreds of men. She became intimately acquainted with male anatomy, with the emotions and actions of the wounded. She still knew virtually nothing of men in any situation not anatomical or medical. There were nurses achingly good at that. Those women could soothe hearts and minds undone by battles and pains. They brought solace out of pain. Such traits did not reside in Sybil's character.

Sybil found uncomfortably that nursing revealed her to be an idealist with little practical skills for actually relating to her patients. The girl who had wanted nothing more than to canvas in Ripon, discovered she had little understanding of patients. Her theories never quite transferred to the actual day to day realities of patient care.

As such, Sybil had drifted toward the comatose or of late the severely shell shocked, the men so far gone they would not require the kindness and assurances, which she could not quite make herself believe. The last weeks with more garden variety sane patients had nearly been her undoing. She'd endured it only by obsessing on the medical, gangrene inspections and tedious, sanitary checks…anything, anything to avoid actually interacting with the men who they would stitch and sew up so they could march them right back onto the battlefield. The very men she had sought to help, she found herself fleeing from the sight of…

The uncomfortable truth was that war made one take a brutal account of ones self. She had thought herself progressive; one of the people and had found herself instead typical and ill informed about the reality of people's lives. Branson had considered himself progressive and a leader and he'd bled to death on a post office floor at the age of 22. A sorry lot for both of them.

This case had seemed a godsend. A chance to jump into a new and different sphere, regain her confidence and reenergize herself. A chance to crawl back toward the idea she had had of herself. And of course Matthew would be there, sort of a help mate but she would drive things, solve the mystery, win the day and in the end get back to the old convictions of the person she used to be.

Tonight though she realized Matthew was in as bad a state as she and his state served only to remind her about her own…. Since he'd appeared he'd played at the old ease but tonight convinced her it was merely an act. A well played act, but a performance all the same. He was as tormented as anyone else who'd been to this awful war. Realizing this, she felt a sudden surge of affection for him and an overwhelming need to tell him so, to try and breach the awful distance that separated him. She felt infinitely less alone to realize he shared her sorry plight.

Pushing back the covers, Sybil put her feet to the floor. Crossing the room she flung open the door hurrying down the hall, impatient to see Matthew, to assure herself they were closer rather than further away. Reaching his door she twisted the knob…Knocking seemed ridiculous. Matthew was so proper, he was unlikely to ever be doing anything embarrassing or improper. She half suspected he slept in his suit. Pushing the door she crept into the room glancing at the bed. Even in the shadows it was obvious that he was not in the bed. She felt a momentary panic, reassuring herself that surely he had not left. Stepping further into the room she glanced around. His kit was still beside the desk. Through the wave of light from the hall, she saw his uniform jacket laying neatly folded across the chair. Taking a further step she glanced down at the floor, catching sight of him sitting upright on the floor in his pajamas. Nothing could have surprised her more; somber, dedicated non-suited Matthew, sitting on the floor seemingly lost to himself.

She stood taking his face in as if slowly imbibing a glass of red wine, wanting to savor every feature, memorize every detail so that even if he went away, if he….she would always have the memory of him sitting like this in the moonlight.

For his part Matthew seemed supremely unaware of her presence. He was sitting legs sprawled before him, obviously lost in his own thoughts. The position, the lack of recognition caused a small tremor to traverse her stomach. Sybil had seen rows of men with such expressions, dressed neatly in pajamas and robes with porridge dribbling down their chins, their mind as soupy as the food. The tremor struck at her causing her to call out suddenly, nervously, "MATTHEW! MATTHEW!"

Matthew looked up seeming startled by her presence. "Sybil?"

Forcing her nerves to still she called brightly, "Hello." She said sounding to her own ears absolutely insane. As if it was typical to wander into someone's bedroom in the middle of the night for a quick chat, screeching their name like a banshee. She had a feeling if she was in a Henry James novel this would be the tip of insanity.

Matthew seemed to think the same for her was staring at her confusedly, finally asking,

"What are you wearing?"

Sybil shrugged looking down at the brown cotton, "Jamie's pajamas." Seeing a slight inquisitive expression she plunged in excitedly, "Father's always looked so comfortable and well they were in the drawer and Elspeth said borrow whatever I needed." She kept talking and talking hoping to avert the moment when she had to explain why she was in his room.

"War does make for strange bed fellows." Matthew quipped offering a wan smile. She had a feeling he was half in his own world, half in their shared world. Thus, he spoke distantly as if addressing someone on a distant shore while he turned facing the sea.

Lowering herself, Sybil sat down beside him on the floor, the cool of the boards seeping past the cotton, pouring into her skin and settling inside her bones. Hugging her knees to her chest she wondered if this was what it was like to be a boy. Wearing pajamas, playing up the hero, ordering beers, then sitting around brooding over private pains about which society dictated you were never to speak.

"I'm sorry." His words shattered the silence and she struggled not to jump at the sound of his voice. Apparently finding her expression confusing he added, "About earlier. The scene."

Sybil had a feeling during her silence he had drifted back toward their world, as she was eager to keep him with her she replied cheerfully, "Those things happen at pubs." She said, really she had no idea but she wanted to reassure him.

"I suppose." He agreed distantly. "Not to me though."

Sybil smiled lunging for something easy, "Really I quite fancy the image of you railing at braggarts while gulping beer."

"Hardly." He snorted dismissively. "I don't deal with boasting that well these days." Sybil rocked slightly needing a moment or two to decide how best to reply, opting for silence until she knew just what to say. Her silence seemed to unnerve Matthew though for at length he said impatiently, "Aren't you going to ask me? Why I behaved so terribly."

"Hardly." She said mimicking his earlier words.

He swung his head around asking, "Why not?"

Sybil sighed replying, "Because at some point you might just want to ask me similar questions." She added by way of explanation, "If I examine your wounds sooner or later you'll surely want a peek at mine."

"Are you wounded then?"

She looked up at him, "Is anyone in this miserable affair not scarred all the way through?"

He leaned back resting his head against the back of the mattress saying nothing, taking her words in as they came deep in reflection. "I've been laying awake for hours, in Jamie's pajamas," She said needing a bit of levity. "And thinking how I came to war with some twisted notion of patriotism considering myself some type of nurse heroine." She shook her head reproachfully, "And now I shrink from soldiers, content to chase a murderer lest I be forced to deal with the sick. Twisted," She declared as if diagnosing her own condition.

Matthew reached out blindly not wanting to turn his head or speak. Clasping his hand over her hair he stroked it gently. She responded by lowering her head on to his shoulder letting him hold her as if they were young children frightened in the darkest portion of the night. Perhaps they were…

_So I cannot decide if I even like this chapter. It just kind of came out. I do promise the next chapter should bring some insight into the case. Meanwhile, pajama wearing Matthew and Sybil will let you sit on the floor with them if you review._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Apologies for the delay ragweed got in the way.

Stretching Sybil felt an unfamiliar surface beneath her body. Waking felt different this morning… instead of a comfortable mattress as at home or the cot at the hospital, she felt a thin carpet, a carpet so thread bear that she could feel the cold of the floor pushing through the threads and spreading across her body. Stretching further she tried to loosen joints stiff and aching from a night spent on the floor.

Memories from the night below flooded her brain, and she reached as if instinctively for Matthew. Her hand flailed in the empty air before falling to the floor. This did not surprise her, still she felt a slight pain like a bride deserted after a wedding night. Even as she dismissed the notion as ridiculous, his absence still left her feeling a little lost. The sliver of sunlight visible under the shade alerted her that it was well past dawn, and with Matthew no where in sight she thought it best to get to the businesses of morning. Rising she crossed the room, glancing in the hall she crossed to her room grateful that neither Ayers spotted her.

After changing and performing her morning routine, Sybil came downstairs finding Matthew alone in the kitchen. Matthew was stretched out by the table reading the paper with a partially nibbled piece of toast on the plate beside him. "Finally up then?" He asked not glancing up from his paper.

Glancing around Sybil reassured herself that they were alone. Lowering her voice, Sybil queried, "Why didn't you wake me when you got up?"

"You seemed quite comfortable." He said matter of factly adding by way of an explanation, "I decided to let you rest."

"And when did you get up?"

"Oh," He said uncertainly, "Hours and hours ago."

Sybil felt a ghost of disappointment realizing night Matthew and his honesty and fears had been replaced by breezy, witty Matthew. She wondered if she made a similar metamorphic transition. "I see."

Further conversation was stopped when Elspeth breezed into the room calling cheerfully, "Good morning sleepyhead."

"Good morning," Sybil returned brightly. "I am sorry for sleeping in. It was frightfully bad manners." The image of the scolding Granny would give almost caused Sybil to smile.

Elspeth laughed clucking, "Tis no sin. A body needs its rest. Besides," She added affectionately. "It seems to be a morning for waking late. He's only been up a half hour." Elspeth said matter of factly, causing Sybil to shoot a knowing look at Matthew, who instantly became extremely interested in his tea. "Shall I make you a spot of breakfast?"

Sybil's face relaxed into an easy smile admitting, "I'm famished."

Elspeth glanced affectionately at the pair during breakfast. Matthew with his one half eaten plain piece of toast, Sybil eating her third piece of toast fairly swimming in marmalade.

"I'm going to create a murder map." Sybil cheerfully announced . Matthew looked up started to speak and then simply shook his head and returned to reading the newspaper. Without waiting for the question Matthew was clearly just not going to provide she added, "A murder map is all the details one needs to visualize the entire crime."

"I have never heard of such a thing," Elspeth said interestedly, causing Sybil to toss a gloating smile at Matthew, who raised his paper all the higher.

"She probably made it up." He suggested to no one in particular.

"I did not make it up. I read it in a book."

"Written it by someone who..…" He let his pause linger before concluding, "Made it up."

Ignoring him Sybil continued, "I'm going to map all the details of Muellen's death."

"What fun." Matthew replied drearily. "Meanwhile, I have to write to Edith, discuss the issues of Turkish nationalism." He announced this brightly like this would quite make his afternoon.

"Oh you are going to let me go to a murder scene on my own?" Sybil asked matter of factly.

He sighed irritably, "Of course not."

"Oh you are coming then." She seemed pleasantly surprised, though Elspeth doubted she was even slightly surprised.

"Of course I'm coming." He assented grunting. "You keep dragging me to murder scenes and investigating murders…I suppose next you will expect me to take up karate so I can defend you against the murderer." He sounded utterly put out, though Elspeth doubted that he was.

"What is karate?" Sybil asked turning in the doorway to face him again.

"A style of fighting well known in the Orient." Matthew snapped angrily. "A classmate who grew up with missionary parents used to give lessons."

"And you took them?" Sybil asked with unmasked delight.

Matthew rolled his eyes, "I did not." Raising his papers, "You would have." And his words seemed weighted with traces of both admiration and exasperation.

"Of course." She said fairly skipping from the room.

Elspeth watched her a fond smile ghosting her lips, "She does have the life force."

"Yes." Matthew agreed raising his paper, "It can be extremely annoying one moment and utterly endearing the very next. At this moment it is very, very annoying."

It was still annoying Matthew though perhaps a little less so an hour later as they drove toward the butcher shop. Sybil had brought along a composition book that vaguely looked like the sort of tablet he had used while reading law. It was odd, one moment she was the very talented debutante, the next Robert was writing she'd run off, then for a bit she was a nurse and now she seemed to be morphing into some sort of criminal detective. He could not get a hold on her, and Matthew did not trust things he could not rationalize. Deciding he needed a better handle on her actions he asked with forced casualness, "What makes you believe a murder map will help?"

"Are you mocking me Matthew?"

"No," He said realizing he actually was not. "Merely attempting to gain some perspective on your line of thought."

She smiled, an enigmatic smile before turning away saying, "Attempting to understand if there is a line to my thoughts, I'd imagine."

She is serious. He realizes this with a start, Sybil is so very serious. The canvassing in Ripon, the political beliefs, the nursing, even this…whatever it is, is so very, very serious. Even her lighter moments as this morning are colored by her seriousness. And she is so very young and has seen so much… He feels a tinge of regret, at the idea he might just be one more thing she has to be serious about…Deciding to add some levity, though he was unsure if it was for her or his benefit, Matthew answered lightly, "I am quite certain there is a line, crooked though it may be."

Seeming to take his lead Sybil laughed lightly, "You know me Matthew. Going at things in my own fashion, however odd."

"I do not really…know you that is…" He admitted somewhat surprised at the truth in his words. Seeing the surprise in her eyes, he explained, "You were forever in the shadows."

"And Mary eternally the sun."

He rejected the desire to scoff, deciding that would rather prove the point he said only, "We were never really alone before… I realized last night we have spent more time together this weekend than in all the years before…"

"I have thought the same," She agreed adding, "It's such an odd world…the way we know people without really knowing them." Chuckling she said, "Perhaps one day after this we should create a murder map for our lives." She seemed rather pleased with her idea for the sides of her lips quirked up and she said, "Work out all the details and threads, get a better sense of ourselves and our world."

Matthew thought the idea perfectly ghastly. He half feared what Sybil might tease out about his life, and was not sure he wanted that kind of look inside anyone, himself least of all. Still, he played on gamely saying, "Yes let's."

She smiled happily as if pleased by the idea, Matthew felt rather grateful that she did not know him well enough to recognize his unease. Turning he watched the road, letting her see only his profile, hoping to disguise his unease. "I suppose for now we had best focus on Mullen though."

She sounded vaguely disappointed, but again serious and purposeful saying, "Why would someone decide to become a butcher?"

"Perhaps it was the family business."

"That is very logical." She pronounced, it was not quite clear whether she considered this a positive or negative trait. "May I ask a personal question?"

He had the most terrible fear she was beginning her Matthew map. Still, he forced himself to agree cheerfully, "Of course."

"Why didn't you enter the family business?"

"I do not care for blood." He smiled revealing his statement to be more ironic than factual. Considering her question more seriously he continued, "I suppose had my father lived longer I might well have entered medicine." He frowned adding, "But as he died young I had no true exposure to the business. So when law began to interest me, there was no past association or filial duty to hold me back."

She contemplated his words, mulling all he said and had not said. "Do you think you would have been a good doctor?"

"I would have been a terrible doctor." He said stopping the car in front of the butcher shop. Neither made the slightest move to exit the car.

She looked up surprised by his tone and the candor of his words. "Why in the world would you think that?"

He was silent a long moment considering her question before saying, "When I told my mother I wanted to enter law she envisioned me tromping down to the Old Bailey dirtying my wig and defending the wretched of the world. That's the kind of thing she expected of me. She saw a barrister, I became solicitor." He kept staring ahead as if focused entirely on the road. "My father he was the sort who would rush in to nurse the ill, wounded. He had a need for saving people, nursing the sick, healing the wounded. I am not that sort."

Sybil smiled knowingly, "That's what Isobel would have done." She said clearly thinking back to his earlier words. "Bought a wig and commenced work…"

"Yes." He said adding matter of factly, "Mary too."

"Mary?" Sybil giggled at the mere idea of her sister in such a role, "I cannot see Mary defending the lower classes."

"Oh I don't know. I think her adoration of arguing would override her paralyzing snobbery."

The image of Mary in a black robe, donning a white wig and stomping up and down the courtroom arguing with everyone was oddly convincing causing her to speculate airily, "If Mary was born now I think she could be remarkable."

Matthew contemplated her words for a moment, finally saying, "I think Mary considers herself entirely remarkable."

"Not really, " Sybil said distantly. "She does love playing the confident judgmental snob, but she's not that person, not really. You know that…" She glanced up waiting to hear his remark, rather unsurprised when he made none. "It's a game with her. It worries me though," She admitted.

Matthew fought a losing battle against the desire to ask. Recognizing he was simply not strong enough to win this battle he asked as disinterestedly as possible, "Why?" He felt his face and neck tensing.

"You play something so long and then you become that thing."

"If that's true then most of this country had best be concerned." He said pretending to posses a deeper concern for the welfare of the nation.

Sybil nodded seeming to acknowledge the truth in his words. "Still," She added pensively, "Sometimes I wonder what it would take to get Mary out of it. "Something horrible, I imagine," She said opening the door and climbing from her seat, hurrying toward the butcher shop her mind clearly reverting to the crime and the victim, his still on her words and her sister.

I promise the next chapter is all about the murders and will provide some further clues into the situation. Generous scones, hot tea and lovely chocolates for those kind enough to review.


	8. Chapter 8

"We have less than 48 hours to solve this case." Sybil announced when Matthew entered the room.

Matthew turned around expecting to see someone else following him. Seeing no one he queried, "Were you addressing me?"

"Who else would I be addressing?" She added slightly priggishly, "Mr. Muellen is no longer present."

"I thought perhaps you were becoming a medium." He did not add that such a decision would not surprise him in the least.

"Not yet." She replied offering him a sunny smile, which he felt was the most annoying response possible.

Before he could respond, Sybil turned returning her attention to the scene. Matthew watched her a few moments before asking, "Whatever are you doing?"

"Surveying the scene." She answered distractedly her attention clearly focused on the scene. "I learned many things at the London. The most important being… The only way we can fix anything is to understand the totality of the situation."

Deciding not to even try and grapple with what the totality of the situation might be, Matthew asked curiously, "And that is what you are doing now?"

"Trying anyway," She agreed evenly.

"It must have been terrible." He said softly thinking of the stories he had heard about the London. It sounded the kind of place that one would happily donate pounds and pounds to, without ever wanting to visit. And yet Sybil had cast off all her training and went there, stayed there and seemingly learned there… He could not wrap his mind around her decisions, and yet he felt a wave of such admiration.

Sybil looked up seemingly puzzled. "The opposite actually."

While curious of her meaning, Matthew did not press recognizing that her attention was focused on the task at hand. "How might I be of assistance?"

Sybil looked up flashing a look of gratitude. "I'm looking for any trace evidence. Blood stains, fibers from clothing, anything the constable might have missed."

They spent the next hour crossing and recrossing the room. Creeping down to look at the floor, standing on chairs to see the highest shelves. Reexamining every corner and floorboard. At the end she sighed admitting, "Much as it pains me to admit it the Constable was correct. There is not a drop of evidence in this room."

"It appears not." Matthew granted leaning against the wall. "Are you surprised?"

"A bit," Sybil admitted sighing tiredly, "Disappointed as well."

"Such is life," Matthew remarked half seriously. "Sometimes a girl just cannot solve a murder."

Sybil rolled her eyes and was formulating a perfectly scathing reply when the door burst open and dirty sodden figure exclaimed beseechingly, "You have to help me. Someone is trying to kill me!"

Marlowe?" Sybil asked quizzically.

"Marlowe." Matthew repeated sounding disgusted.

"Someone is trying to kill me!" He repeated as if answering their greetings. Matthew thought this was the least surprising thing that he had heard all weekend.

The Eagle's Head was even less appetizing in the daylight. As they approached a table, Matthew wondered if there was a discrete way to use his handkerchief to wipe the chair. Realizing there was not he tried not to wince as he lowered himself into a rickety chair. Sybil had suggested they return to the place, insisted really. He had intended to object, but she had clearly paid no attention whatsoever and before he knew what was happening he was driving Sybil and a babbling Marlowe to the pub.

The place was deserted which Matthew found not the least surprising. It did not look the type of place one went to during the day. Sybil and Marlowe ordered beer, but the barmaid agreed to brew Matthew a pot of tea. He was half convinced his state last night was a result of indigestion from that brew. He shuddered at the idea of what she might put in the tea.

Glancing over at the table where Sybil and Marlowe were he could not suppress a smile. She really was marvelous. Marlowe was perfect idiot, still Sybil handled him so brilliantly. Perhaps being a social natural, a nurse and being on her own had given her skills, she seemed able to adapt to any situation. If this war ever ended, she really should go to university. With some training and some intellectual grounding she'd be a star, a total star.

"You will be all right." Sybil spoke firmly.

"They tried to murder me!" Marlowe repeated excitedly. The boastful, pride of the previous night had been replaced with genuine terror. His shirt was clearly sweat stained and even now his forehead glistened with perspiration. Whatever his true nature, Marlowe had clearly been truly frightened.

"But they did not succeed." Sybil pointed out, having long ago discovered that logic could sometimes override emotions.

"Close nuff." He swore adding emphatically, "I felt the hairs on the back of me neck stand up."

"It must have been terrifying." Sybil agreed soothingly. "But you have been through worse."

"Hardly," He scoffed and then seeming to recognize her meaning added, "That was different."

Matthew returned carrying their beers. "I am certain." He agreed but did not say more due to Sybil's warning glare.

"I know what you thinks about me," Marlowe virtually spat. "You think the same thing as the rest… half the village wrote me off by time I was a lad. But I signed up, I did my bit. I don't have the fancy uniform you got or the medals but I did my part!"

Matthew nodded accepting the truth in the man's word. "No one is questioning your patriotism."

"I'm not patriotic." Marlowe snarled. "King and country is a pint of rubbish. What has the king done for me? And country eh I fought every day of me life for a bit of bread and a pint now and again. I went for me lads."

"And who are your lads?" Sybil questioned interestedly. Thoughts of the murder had been momentarily been pushed aside by the starkness of Marlowe's life, one so different than her own, and therefore rather fascinating.

"The fellas I growed up side." Marlowe said flatly. "We was a tight bunch six of us. Grew up on the same streets, sent out to work early, greedy for any sweet food or," And he looked away saying, "Physical… we could get. You get close to fellas when you all got the same troubles, same joys. So we signed up together. Big adventure." He virtually spat out the final sentence.

"Where are your fellas now?" Sybil asked wanting to bite the question back as she watched Matthew close his eyes as if pained by her question.

Marlowe looked down, "Three dead, one blind, one lost his legs, and the last left to dribble his food down his chin for the rest of his life. King and country." He repeated the word as if uttering a profanity.

The barman arrived with Matthew's tea and the three seemed grateful for the disruption. They sat in contemplative silence drinking and letting a bit of time pass. Branson had said one that she was naïve, that she liked the idea of saving the world, but she had not one jot of an idea about the people she actually wanted to save. It had been one of their final talks and it served as a period on the sentence that was them. A few weeks into her nursing training she had acknowledged if only to herself how right Branson had been. And now after sewing up wounds, watching limbs to be sawed away. she realized that she was no closer to really knowing much of anything about the status of people. It seemed to both depress and energize her. Finally, Sybil said, "Can you tell us exactly what happened?"

Marlowe tightened his grip on the stem of his beer glass. Without realizing it he began to lightly rock the glass, the foam shifting from side to side. "I was on me way home, I had a few to many last night…" He chuckled uncomfortably, "I reckon you both know that. When I get a few in me I get boastful, start talking bout things, war and all…" He closed his eyes, "Truth my time over there wasn't much." Matthew shot a knowing look at Sybil who pretended not to notice him. "I did me part." He insisted again this time more firmly, "But I weren't no soldier. Mostly I tried to get through."

"Last night." Matthew repeated firmly. Sybil glanced up surprised to see a compassionate expression on Matthew's face.

Marlowe nodded and began again, "I was on me way home and as I said I had a bit much… I thought I heard a ghost's footsteps dancing on my grave."

Sybil swung around curious at his meaning. Matthew explained it saying, "Was someone following you?"

"I thought so, I did." He said nodding his head vigorously. "Thought it might just be nerves though, walked faster and faster. And the feet kept coming right after me. Soon enough, I began to run me feet off."

"Where did you go?"

"Cross town, running the way, faster than I ever ran… finally ended up in that old iron works at the edge of town. Ran through the whole place…just kept hearing those footsteps behind me. Then I woke up," He lifted his gap showing a large red gash, "I must have hit me head on a rail." He seemed to relax only slightly saying, "Woke up an hour ago."

"You were never harmed?" Sybil asked evenly. "Physically?"

"Physically." He repeated the word sourly as if twisting the word around and uncertain of his meaning. "Not physically."

Sybil nodded saying, "Perhaps," And Sybil was careful, not wanting to cast doubts on his story. "Perhaps it was only a result of the drink."

Marlowe nodded quickly, uneasily. "Yes, yes I thought that. I thought that." He spoke quickly taking a long drag on his cigarette, "But this," He raised his cap up pointing a dirty nail to a small hole in the cap. "Can't imagine that can I?"

Matthew reached across the table taking the cap into his hands. Without conscious thought he placed the precise bullet and gun that would produce such a hole. Still, he kept that information close to the vest, best not to give Sybil undue ammunition. He half smiled at his private pun. Covering it quickly when he caught Sybil's confused gaze.

"You see it doncha?" Marlowe demanded weakly, his words coming out as more of a squeak.

"Indeed, I do." Matthew agreed returning the cap to Marlowe.

"They are trying to kill me!" Marlowe protested as if uncertain of Matthew's words.

"Yes someone will." Matthew agreed evenly. "If Sybil and I cannot stop them." He swung round glancing at Sybil with an engaged and purposeful countenance. "We are going to try and stop them."

After seeing Marlowe inside and speaking briefly with his wife, Sybil walked slowly back to the car. She had grown used to death and blood and waste in war… but seeing the same fears and issues in a quiet village in the south of England rather rattled her more than she would care to acknowledge. As such, she was quiet stepping into the car and she and Matthew had driven in companionable silence for some moments before she said, "They wanted me to come home. Work at Downton." She added by way of explanation. "Papa might have been driven by patriotism to use Downton, but mama and granny wanted me home." She felt Matthew's eyes upon her, but he remained silent. "They could not imagine how the idea repelled me. Going home just to see more wounded and maimed. Macabre." She said as if summing the entire idea up in one word.

"And that is why you would not go home?"

She shrugged her shoulders, "Partly." She waited for him to press for more information, but she forgot Matthew was Matthew. Branson would push, she would push and push, but Matthew never would. Perhaps on some level he did not even desire an answer. It was maddening and against everything in her nature, and yet, and yet it touched her deeply. Matthew seemed to stand for so much that Granny and Papa believed in, a world she could never comfortably inhabit, and yet one she admired in a stubborn, confused fashion.

"How was Marlowe?" His question was evenly put, and intended, Sybil decided, to subtly yet decisively change the subject.

"Scared." She said continuing, "He's going to stay at home until the morning."

Matthew nodded evenly, "Sound idea."

"Not particularly, just the best one I have at the moment."

A smile ghosted Matthew's lips, "At training they said inspiration often trumped the best plans."

"I am surprised you care." She said flatly, "He is hardly your favorite."

"Well perhaps I was wrong about that," Matthew said adding more firmly, "No I was entirely wrong about that." Sighing he admitted quietly, "I had him all wrong," He looked away saying, "All the drinking, the boasting, he's trying to forget what he did not do."

Sybil knew that to question his meaning would serve merely serve to deepen the gulf between them. Best, she decided, to trust his judgment. "Where do we go next?"

"I think we need to fetch Elspeth see if she knows the identity of the blind lad or the amputated one." He said pushing the peddle, "We need to find out what really happened to those men." As if anticipating her next question he added, "To understand the motive of these crimes, we need more of an idea of who might want Marlowe dead. Who wanted the butcher and the barman dead, too."

"Surely," Sybil said confusedly, "Marlowe's incident had nothing to do with the other two murders."

"Oh I disagree," Matthew said matter of factly, "I believe it has everything to do with the murders."


End file.
